Murder Most Fowl (21 page)

“I understand she's something of an expert on Harry Potter and the Hogwarts books. Has a small business offering activities for children.”

“That's right. She does some of it at the Newburyport Library.”

He glanced up at Cam. “I'll bet she wishes she could cast a spell to make Wayne come back to life.”

“Her daughter would love that.”

“Megan?”

“Yes. She's having a hard time with Wayne's death.”

“But not the wife?”

“I didn't mean that. Of course, I'm sure she would love to have him back, too.”
Maybe
.

“I also learned that Greta Laitinen was quite the brilliant scientist in college. She was offered a full ride to go to Yale for a PhD degree program in biology, but never accepted it.”

“That's interesting. Did you also learn why she didn't go?”

“I can guess.” He tapped his pen on the notebook as he continued. “She and Wayne were married four months before their son was born. You have to be awfully motivated, and have a lot of family support, to be a successful grad student while raising children.”

Talk about thwarted ambitions. “And maybe she didn't have that,” Cam agreed. “I think Wayne was fairly traditional, despite how much he seemed to love her. But you sound like you know something about being a graduate student.”

He tilted his head. “Actually, I do. My wife is finishing her PhD at MIT. And we have a three-year-old son. When I'm not out chasing a story, I'm Mr. Mom at home.” He checked his notes again. “Well, I think that's it. Thanks for your time. I appreciate it.” He stood.

Cam stood, too. “Not a problem. I'm not exactly interested in being famous, but I believe in print journalism. I guess I'm old fashioned in my own way, too. There's something about curling up on the couch with a real newspaper that I like.”

“Once again, you're preaching to the choir.” He stuck out his hand.

Cam shook it. “Take care. Have fun with your little boy.”

He rolled his eyes. “It's not always fun, but it's always interesting. Taking care of him is the hardest thing I've ever done, and the most meaningful, too. He's a great kid and he never stops moving.” He stopped at the door. “On the off chance this Patterson woman is not the right person in custody, I'll be back.”

Cam nodded, watching him go. Despite the fecund warmth and light of her hoop house, she shivered, wondering,
What if Judith wasn't the right person in custody . . .
?

D
asha trotted ahead on the leash as Cam moved at a brisk pace along Middle Road. A wind had picked up, and she was glad she'd donned a windbreaker before setting out for a walk after Ken Wallace left. Attic Hill Road, where her farm was situated, fed into Middle, which coursed up and down gentle hills the full length of town a couple of miles behind and parallel to Main Street. Houses dotted the road between swathes of woods, with the occasional open field running right down to the road. From deeper into the woods a northern flicker tapped out its
wik-wik-wik
call as busy chickadees buzzed next to the road. A few yards into the woods Cam spied maidenhair ferns popping up from the leaf litter, their green furled tops looking like the heads of stringed instruments.

As she walked, she mused on what Ken had said about Greta's PhD program. So Cam had been correct about child rearing interfering with Greta's pursuit of her studies. Would Greta return to her passion of science now that Wayne was gone?

After a mile or so, Cam came to the lane where the Laitinen farm was. On a whim, she steered Dasha down the narrow road and onto the long drive into the farm. When she neared the buildings, Pluto loped up and Cam pulled Dasha to a halt.

“Hey, Pluto,” she said, holding out her hand for him to sniff. After he and Dasha checked each other out on both ends, Pluto barked once, then began to trot toward the barn. Cam followed and Dasha strained to run with Pluto, but she kept hold of his leash for now.

Greta appeared in the doorway of the chicken house, a bucket of eggs in one hand. She raised the other to shield her eyes from the sun.

“Is that you, Cam?” she called.

Cam waved her free arm. “It is. Dasha and I were out for a walk and I thought I'd stop by. Is there anything I can help you with?”

Greta glanced down at the eggs, her frizzy hair sticking out from under a faded Red Sox baseball hat. “Sure, if you want to wash eggs with me.” She pointed at Dasha. “You can let him off leash if you want. Pluto's a friendly old guy.”

Cam unclipped the leash from Dasha's collar and watched as the dogs raced away and then enacted a play fight in the middle of the front yard. She stuffed the leash in her windbreaker pocket as she followed Greta, who was dressed in old jeans and a baggy gray sweatshirt, into the barn.

“Did Megan return your dish?” Greta asked, running water into the bucket she had set in the industrial sink. The skin on her forearms was an angry red and bore scratches.

“She did, thanks. She seems pretty broken up about Wayne's death.” Cam watched Greta work. Cam didn't think Greta needed to know that Megan had asked for Cam's help. Or that Cam hadn't been able to offer any. “Hey, are your arms okay?”

“Poison sumac. I'm terribly allergic to it, poison ivy, too, and I didn't see some in the woods the other day.”

“Looks painful.”

“Itches like crazy. Grab a few of those flats, would you?” Greta pointed to the stack of egg flats. “But yes, Megan runs to the emotional. She'll be okay.” Flecks of shavings floated to the top of the water as she took a small, soft brush to one egg after another.

Cam set a flat next to the towel where Greta was placing the clean eggs and began to transfer them to the cells in the flat. “Have you decided what you'll do with the business, Greta?”

Greta shook her head. “No, I haven't. I'm not interested in all this work. Well, this kind of work, anyway. Scrubbing crap off eggs isn't my idea of a good time, but I can't bring myself to throw them away, especially when the Food Mart is buying them. I'm not in any hurry to make a decision.”

“Sounds wise.”

“I used to do much more interesting things. When I was young.” Her voice held a wistful note.

Cam cleared her throat. “So did you hear the police have Judith Patterson in custody for Wayne's murder?”

Greta's hands stilled. She turned slowly to face Cam. “Yes. They called me. How do you know about it?”

“I read it online. Custody. Does that mean she's been arrested?” Cam asked.

Greta focused on the eggs again. “I don't know.”

“It must be a relief for you, to know they found out who did it,” Cam said.

“Oh, it's a relief, all right. Rich lady thinks she can boss poor farmers around. Serves her right. Glad the cops figured it out.”

“Did you suspect Judith?”

“I'm not in the business of suspecting anyone, Cam.” She shot Cam a sharp glance. “I've been busy trying to hold my life together, and that of my daughter and all the damn livestock around here.”

“Something about the arrest seems off to me,” Cam said. “Judith is, as you say, rich. I don't understand why she felt she had to kill Wayne.”

“There's lots about folks that's hard to understand.” Greta shook her head. “Lots. You're young yet. You'll learn.”

“I'm sure I will.” True, Cam was at least twenty years younger than Greta, but the comment seemed like it came out of left field. She sure didn't feel young, not after running her own business, being associated with more than one murder, and having her own life endangered.

Cam filled one flat and set another one on top. “Megan will be happy to hear the news, I'm sure.”

“And Henry, too,” Greta said.

“I wanted to ask you about something that happened a long time ago, Greta.”

“Shoot.”

“Well, it's not related to the murder, but it does involve Wayne.” Cam told her about finding the bracelet and the bone. “And apparently the girl whose bracelet it was was named Fionnoula Leary.” She watched Greta, but all Greta did was lift a shoulder and drop it.

“Never heard of her.”

“There was some kind of accident and she died.”

“What does this have to do with me?” Greta asked.

“Paul Underwood was with her and another girl named Catriona Brennan. And Wayne was with them, too.”

“Really?” She looked at Cam, her hands still in the bucket. “He never told me. We were never that kind of couple, though. You know, the ones who have to share everything with their darling spouse.” She snorted. “After his great-aunt died, she left him a nice inheritance. He didn't share that with me, either, even though we could have used the money to help support this losing enterprise. Seems like his business hemorrhaged money.” She fell silent for a moment, gazing at the eggs. “But . . .”

Cam waited.

“I never really understood what was up between Paul and Wayne,” Greta continued. “Wayne didn't care to spend time with him. But last Saturday, after Paul came to see him, Wayne seemed excited about something. Or nervous, more so.”

What had Paul said?
Wayne was ready to go public
. “You don't know what it was about?”

Greta shook her head. “They went outside to talk.”

Pluto ambled into the barn, with Dasha right behind. They both settled in near where Cam and Greta worked, Dasha striking a Sphinx pose, Pluto watching from an upright sitting position, tongue lolling.

Greta looked at them and laughed. “New best buddies, looks like.”

“Did you guys have fun?” Cam asked the dogs.

Dasha gave a little bark before returning to inscrutable. The two women worked without speaking for a few minutes, until the last flat was filled with glistening tan eggs.

Greta dried her hands and used her left hand to pick up the pencil hanging from a string above a piece of paper taped to the fridge. “Wayne always said we have to keep track of the yield.” She wrote the date and a number.

“So what were the interesting things you did when you were young?” Cam asked as she slid the flat onto the bottom rack in the refrigerator. She straightened to see Greta staring at her.

“Did you come over here to help me or to grill me?” Greta asked in a near whisper. “Why are you so damn interested in my life?”

C
am strode back along the left edge of Middle Road. She always walked facing traffic, harboring a possibly irrational belief that if she made eye contact with an oncoming car, she'd be safer than if a car approached her from behind. Dasha trotted ahead of her on the leash, occasionally slowing to investigate something at the side of the road, but mostly heading straight home for his dinner. Cam carried a plastic grocery bag in the hand not holding the leash. Greta had insisted she take a dozen eggs home, even when Cam protested that she had her own hens' eggs and that she lived alone.

Greta was an odd mix of kind and caustic, smart and suspicious, grieving and yet not seeming particularly sad. Cam was surprised at what she'd said about Wayne not sharing either secrets or his great-aunt's money with Greta. Cam would have pegged him as more of a share-all sort, and if anybody would be the withholding type, it would be Greta. Which only confirmed what Cam already knew—that one can never truly understand what goes on in other people's relationships.

Greta hadn't wanted to talk about her earlier life as a scientist. Cam could understand that. She was a private person, too. She hadn't felt she could come out and say what Ken had told her about Greta's scholarship to graduate school. Cam had thought, since Greta had opened the door to the “interesting things” she'd done when she was young, that she'd be willing to keep talking about it. Clearly wrong.

Also curious was why Wayne had chosen last weekend to tell Paul he was going to go public. Why now? Why not a decade earlier, or next year? She shook her head. She'd likely never know. Having to keep a secret like that for all those years had to be corrosive to the soul, though.

Dasha slowed to sniff out the trunk of a swamp oak at the junction of Attic Hill Road with Middle. A black sedan crested the hill just ahead on Middle and came speeding toward them. Cam pulled Dasha in close to her at the edge of the shoulder and slid the bag over her wrist so she'd have that hand free if she needed it. Surely the driver saw them, but she wasn't about to get run over in case he or she didn't. As the car sped by, Cam glimpsed Paul Underwood at the wheel, and what looked like a backseat full of boys. Paul braked suddenly, pulling over behind her with a spray of gravel.

Cam turned to see him climb out. He leaned in and said something to the children, then stalked toward her with storm clouds on his face. Dasha barked at him and took an alert stance.

“What do you think you're doing, meddling in other people's business?” Paul stopped two feet in front of her. He folded his arms and stared.

“What do you mean?” Cam kept a firm grip on Dasha's leash.

“I mean I had to spend all morning talking to the police about an accident that happened when I was seventeen. I was a kid.”

“Hold on, now.” Cam held up a hand. “I'm not meddling. I found a human bone on my farm and the bracelet that it had worn. I reported it. Wouldn't you have done the same?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” He pursed his lips, his eyes smoldering. “Who cares what happened? It was a long, long time ago.”

“Anyway, didn't Catriona already tell them what happened?”

“I don't know what she told them and what she didn't. She's not picking up her phone. And the cops weren't about to reveal that information to me.”

“What did happen?” It didn't hurt to ask.

He gazed into the woods for a moment and then back at her, his anger morphing into lines of sorrow around his eyes. “Oh, what the hell. I'm screwed now, anyway.”

“Telling the truth can free you.” Where had she come up with that piece of drivel? Did it sound as trite as Cam thought it did?

“We were young. Not that much older than my own kids.” Paul rubbed his forehead as he glanced at his car. “We were drinking and getting high. We went to the cliffs over the ocean up near Hampton one night.”

Cam waited as a stiff breeze rustled through the woods. Under her windbreaker the sweat from her vigorous walk started to cool and she shivered.

“Wayne had borrowed his father's car. We were playing a tape of Irish music and horsing around in the park up on the bluff pretending to do traditional dance. You know, like Riverdance, but it was before that, and we were all lousy at it, except for Fionnoula. Wayne was going to back up the car so the headlights would shine on us, like we were on a stage. But he put it in drive, instead. It hit Fionnoula.”

Cam gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth.

“He knocked her over the cliff. She landed on the rocks down below.” He hung his head and folded his hands, as if in prayer.

“Did you try to save her? To get help?”

He lifted his head. “No. There was no way to get down there.” Now the look in his eyes was haunted. “She never moved. We knew she was dead. As we watched, a wave crashed over her and she was gone. We panicked. We knew our lives would be ruined, too, if we said what had happened. We made a pact never to tell.”